Whilst they had been up to the Light, someone had come in and gone from the yard. The person had been wearing a man’s boots that were either a small seven or a large six, and the peculiar item in the story told by the footprints was that the maker of them had come and gone on tiptoe. Peculiar because the ground was soft and even a horse could have walked about the yard without anyone inside the Lighthouse hearing it.
Chapter Five
Not in the Summary
AS MRS WASHFOLD had warned, the climb to the Light had not been without cost to his legs. Complaining muscles had some influence on his decision to give up tracking the person in small shoes or boots who, on emerging from the fence gate, had walked away across the tough headland grass. He would remember those tracks and recognize them again did he see them a year hence.
Part-way down the headland to the Inlet was a seat, and here Bony rolled a cigarette, and gently pushed Stug from sitting on his foot to scratch for fleas. The old dog took the hint, and lay down to rest his muzzle on his paws and watch him in canine infatuation.
“Strange goings on, Stug, I must say,” Bony commented. “Friend of yours, without doubt, a friend who walks about on tiptoe when doing so is entirely unnecessary, a friend who stands firm on the ground just outside the Lighthouse door. Slightly pigeon-toed, that friend of yours. Could be a jockey, you know. Jockeys are small men, and all horsemen are slightly pigeon-toed. Well, well. We’ll pick him up some time.”
The hump of the headland partially protected man and dog from the south wind, cold and tangy. The sun was low above distant mountains back of Lorne, and Bony decided that the slight elevation above the Inlet was preferable to that balcony where Fisher was now cleaning windows.
The fact that Fisher had come down from Melbourne to complete work left undone at the previous routine inspection was a distinct and vital omission in the Official Summary of this case.
Although Bolt had said there was no proof of the victim having been shot inside or outside the Lighthouse, there was firm support for the theory that the murder had been committed inside, because the victim’s fingerprints were on the handrail of the staircase.
It was, of course, obvious that the killer had easy access to the Lighthouse. The gate padlock and the Lighthouse door lock were both old-fashioned, simple and strong. They had been examined by experts, who stated that neither had been “picked” and that if the actual keys had not been illegally used then either duplicates or skeleton keys had been.
The official opinion was that the murderer or the victim or both were familiar with the Split Point Lighthouse and thus were permanent or local residents, and that the murderer knew the approximate date of the next Lighthouse inspection. He had pushed the body into the locker hoping to gain more time than he could expect had he left it on the steps. Thus the killer anticipated that the body would remain undiscovered at shortest two months. Unusual circumstances brought discovery within twenty-four hours.
As Bony himself observed, no one without knowledge of the locker could possibly see the door when passing up or down the steps, and such was the colouring of the door against the surrounding wall it was doubtful that, even with a flashlight, a stranger would see it.
The locker had been contrived but a few weeks prior to the previous Christmas by the Repair Gang, three specialists who are sent far and wide to renovate both automatic and manual lighthouses. Like Fisher, these specialists had been in the department’s employ for many years, and as Fisher had mentioned, they had with himself been thoroughly vetted by Bolt’s team.
“Looks to me, Stug, as though the gentleman who interests us is one of the Lighthouse men,” Bony observed to the dog. “But according to the Summary, every one of them is not only of excellent repute but has no connexion with anyone locally.
And further to confuse the old mind, Fisher said that every local resident would know the approximate date of the periodic inspections. Question: ‘Would any local resident know about that locker?’
“Making that locker would not be of such importance in the minds of the Repair Gang even to mention it outside themselves. Maybe, whilst they were working there, someone called and asked to go up to the Light, saw them working on the locker, noted its situation, and eventually decided to use it. The gate and door locks would not hinder a burglar serving his apprenticeship. Yet the Repair Gang told the police that, whilst at work here, no one went up to see the Light. No one asked for permission, which would have been given.”
The identity of the victim stopped short at the description of the body and broadcast by the Press, together with pictures. He was judged to be between forty and forty-five. He was five feet eleven inches, and weighed within a pound of eleven stone. His foot size was seven, his collar size 15, and his hat size was 6½. His eyes were hazel, his hair light-brown and wavy. The only distinguishing mark was a mole between the shoulder blades. A number of persons were permitted to view the body in the formalin tank, but no one had identified it.
“There must be someone,” argued Bolt, “someone other than the murderer, who could identify our body. No one can be so isolated as not to impress his image on the mind of at least one person. This unfortunate could not fail to be remembered by one.”
The man had been shot with an ordinary .32 bullet fired from a revolver. The bullet had shattered the heart and lodged in the spine, and the angle proved that the killer had stood higher than the victim. The assumption that the crime had been committed inside the Lighthouse was thus strengthened by the theory that the murderer was standing higher on the spiral steps when he fired.
From these meagre facts, how to make a start? Not from the body, which no one could identify. Not from the clothes, which could not be found. Not from the scene of the murder, for that could not be accurately established. There was blood on the body about the wound and about the sagging mouth, but none on the steps or the wall of the Lighthouse. The absence of blood within the locker indicated only that the bleeding had stopped prior to the entombment.
“Now they expect me to direct light on all this confusion and within an hour or so tell them who did it and why, and where to find the guilty person,” Bony told Stug. “Fisher reports his find, and the uniformed police arrive and proceed to tramp in and out like blowflies through a hole in a meat safe. Team work they call it, Stug. They then rush out down to the pub for drinks, and to the first person they come across they say: ‘Hey, you!’ And that first person shrinks into his shell and goes dumb. I don’t blame him.
“Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll probably receive a note saying my seconding to Victoria is to be for a week or ten days, and I shall be subjected to other annoyances reminding me that I am a servant of a damned Government Department, and pointing out that if I do not pull my forelock I shall be sacked and my wife and children will starve.
“Solve this small problem! Of course, Stug, we’ll solve it. In our own good time, not the bosses’ time. It’s been pleasant sitting here, and now the sun is about to set and in the bar of the Inlet Hotel men will be drinking. And where men drink one learns. When men drink one learns quickly.”
What a case! What a place for what a case! The sea air caused his eyes to be heavy as though with lack of sleep, and he swung down sharply to the picnic ground and thence to the highway with no thought of his leg muscles until he began to mount the slope to the hotel.
As far removed as Mars was Melbourne and Bolt and crime and criminals, and even farther away was Brisbane, where dwelt the ogre calling himself Colonel Spender. It was good to be alive, to recall that he had never yet failed either his superiors or himself, especially himself. Despite his aching legs, he walked with the litheness of youth.
Outside the bar stood a large truck loaded with firewood. Inside were two men drinking beer served by Mrs Washfold. It was yet a trifle early for the house builders. When Bony entered, Stug squatted on the door mat.
“Hullo, Mr Rawlings!” greeted the licensee’s wife. “What did you think of our Lighthouse? Tired
your legs, I bet.”
“Just a trifle, Mrs Washfold.”
Dressed in black, her cubic proportions made the small section behind the bar barely large enough to contain her. She had made no attempt to put on her face which shone from the application of soap. The smile she tendered to Bony held no guile, and with him it accepted the two men.
One of these was slightly above six feet, well built, weathered to the tint of red ochre which the blacks discovered in South Australia. The other was short, rotund, agile, and his complexion was darker than Bony’s. Both were about the same age ... thirty. The eyes of both were grey. Bony inquiringly raised his brows.
“Take a drink with me?” he suggested.
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the tall man.
The other smiled, and the smile was slow and sure.
“Me, I’ll take a drink with anyone. You go up to the Light?”
“’Course Mr Rawlings went up,” interposed Mrs Washfold. “I seen him on the balcony with the engineer. I wouldn’t have been there for a hundred quid.” She set the glasses before them. Wouldn’t go up there again for a thousand.”
“For a thousand quid I’d go up to the top of the dome and stand on me head,” said the tall man.
“And I,” added the other, giving that slow smile, “I’d go with you and hold your feet up. For a thousand quid I’d do anything. Luck!”
They drank. Bony would have “shouted” again but for the quiet air of independence of these men, the taller of whom asked:
“Didn’t see a body in that locker, I suppose?”
“No,” Bony answered. “I went up to see the Light. In its way a beautiful setting. I read about the murder, of course, but I was much more interested in the Lighthouse.”
“That murder was a funny business,” stated the tall man, and his companion looked at him, smiling as though waiting for a joke. “Neat, that’s what it was. I must say I like a good murder.”
The smile on the face of his mate broadened, seemingly created more by affection than humour. Mrs Washfold’s voice was acid.
“I don’t, Moss, and I’m sure Mr Rawlings don’t, either.”
“It’s certainly remarkable that no one can identify the victim,” Bony said, soothingly. “He must have been a casual visitor. A local man would have been missed.”
“Yair,” the short man agreed, and to Mrs Washfold: “Eric told me that him and all the other drivers was taken up to Mel-bun to have a deck at the corpse. None of ’em could remember seeing the bloke on their run.”
“Eric! Who’s he?” casually asked Bony.
“Drives one of the buses between Lorne and Geelong.”
“You must have been busy at that time, Mrs Washfold,” Bony said, and the woman in black thrust out her chin.
“Fourteen guests and half a dozen or more detectives. The Chief of the CIB was one, and Inspector Snook another. Didn’t have no time for the Inspector, but the Superintendent was a real gent. They musta been disappointed at getting nowhere.”
“Aw, don’t be too sure they’re getting nowhere,” objected the tall man. “They don’t let out all they know, and they never let up, neither. Remember the Pyjama Girl case. Went on for years, and then a cop.”
“Yes, and then what?” snapped Mrs Washfold. “Found him guilty and gave him a year or two in gaol, and then worked him out of the country and back to his own. Paid his fare, too.”
The rear door opened and the licensee appeared. He paused to take in the empty glasses, forgotten by the absorbed Mrs Washfold and the men interested in her words. When he joined his wife, there wasn’t turning room behind the counter.
“Dry argument,” he snorted. “What are we waitin’ for?” Pouncing on the glasses, he filled them.
“I was sayin’,” remarked the tall man, “that the police’ll get the bloke what done this Lighthouse murder ... tomorrer, the next day, sometime. Betcher.”
“Zac,” offered his mate, and smiled at Bony. “What’s the worry, any’ow.”
“Betcher a quid, the police finds the murderer,” persisted the other.
“A fiver,” raised the short man, and dragged a roll from his hip pocket.
“A fiver! All right, a fiver,” agreed the other, and also produced a roll.
“Cobbers’ agreement,” said the short man, and shoved the roll back into his pocket.
“Cobbers’ agreement it is,” said the tall man, doing likewise.
Washfold leaned over the counter towards Bony:
“Plenty of money, eh?” he remarked loudly. “The downtrodden working men. The capitalist-starved working men. And you and me, Mr Rawlings, has to slave our hearts out to support big, loafin’, hungry wives what’ll let the dinner spoil sooner than tend to it. All right, Dick Lake, you can shout. And then, Moss, you next.”
“Suits me,” replied the short man, again smiling. The old felt hat was perched at the back of his fair head, and the smile had become a fixture. Mrs Washfold edged herself through the counter flap to reach the rear door, and Dick Lake caught her arm, saying: “Stay here with us, and we’ll make the old man sweat pulling the beer. Bet I can drink more beer than you.”
“I’m not takin’ you on, Dick Lake,” replied the woman, both pleasure and indignation in her voice.
“Aw, have a heart, Mrs Washfold. Be a sport. About a couple more and I’ll be flat out.”
“I’ll have one drink with you boys, and no more. I’ve the dinner to serve up.”
“Worst pub I ever been in. No friendliness. No sport. Make it a long one, Bert.”
The other man, addressed as Moss Way, joined Bony.
“Didn’t you look into that locker?” he asked, hopefully.
“Well, the engineer did show it to me,” conceded Bony. “But I really didn’t want to look into it, you know.”
“Cripes, you lost a chance. Hey, Dick. What’s that locker like? You worked with the Repair Gang when they was down before Christmas. How big’s it?”
Lake turned from talking to Mrs Washfold.
“Just a hole in the ruddy wall. Bit above the first landin’. There was a winder, and they used to put the danger lamp there. The foreman cemented the winder and fixed a door to make her a cupboard for spare parts.”
“How big?” pressed the tall man.
“Four be four be four. Big enough to take a naked man, anyhow.”
“You were in the Navigation Department?” remarked Bony.
“Me? Never. I was took on as a casual hand when the Gang was here. Good job. Good wages. Funny thing was that I got six and tenpence a week more’n the tradesmen, and they had to do all the high climbing. They reckon a wharf labourer gets more than a university professor, and they’re about right.”
“Any other casuals beside you?”
“Nope. Only me. I’m enough. You stayin’ here for a spell?”
“Staying here for several weeks,” interjected Mrs Washfold.
“What we’re not doing,” declared the tall man, and the short one smiled at Bony, and at Mrs Washfold, and suffered himself to be led out to the truck.
Mrs Washfold slipped away to the kitchen. Her husband proceeded to tell Bony that Dick Lake and Moss Way were a couple of characters and were partners in a wood-carting-general-carrier business. Bony listened with one ear. No mention was made in the Summary of any casual hand employed in the Repair Gang.
Fisher appeared with three of the house builders, and there was time for a round of drinks before Mrs Washfold beat the dinner gong and her husband shouted: “Six o’clock, gents!”
At dinner, Bony told Fisher he could return to Melbourne, leaving the keys of the Lighthouse with him.
Chapter Six
Caskets on Offer
AT THE CLOSE of his first week at Split Point, Bony was liking the place with the quiet satisfaction of the man who prefers a seascape to a surrealist nightmare, Dickens to Superman. In Melbourne, Superintendent Bolt wondered how he was making out, and away up in Brisbane the Queensland Chief Commis
sioner, Colonel Spender, was demanding to know—one, what the hell did that damned Bonaparte think he was doing by mooning around Victoria and, two, why the hell did he ever agree to the seconding of his pet officer to another State.
Bony was unconscious of Time and the necessity of Results. He sat on a bench and watched old Penwarden working with cheap wood on coffins to be sent to undertakers in Melbourne. It seemed certain that the old man would live and be active for another thirty years and that Bony himself was destined to reach the century. These two ignored Time. Ever had they refused to be bustled, to be annoyed by Authority, to be daunted by Life. Bony found affinity with Penwarden, who had lived from one age into another, and refused to permit the last to erase the influences of the first.
At his third visit to the old wheelwright-cum-coffinmaker, Bony asked permission to look again upon the casket built for Mrs Tom Owen, and, permission being granted, he retired to the small annexe and lifted the cloth and stood enraptured by the loveliness of man’s handicraft. When the old man joined him, he had raised the cover and was standing a little back from it to observe how the light appeared to penetrate deep below the surface, and quietly the old man said:
“Life is a Forge. Sorrow is the Fire and Pain the Hammer. Comes Death to cool the Vessel. Like to try her out?”
Old Penwarden stood with his finger tips resting on the edge of one side panel, and, looking at him, Bony realized that he was being most specially favoured. Said the old man:
“You’d fit nicely. Take off your shoes ... might scratch.”
The New Shoe Page 4
